


Scent of Leather

by OriginalCeenote



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Cinderella AU, M/M, Modern Western AU, Remy is a Cowhand, ranchers, reposted from Yahoo Groups
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-30 16:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12657033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Car trouble. Lemonade. Grudging sparks.That's how the romance between a successful businessman and a dairy ranch hand begins. A western Cinderella AU.





	1. Overheated

Logan swallowed the rest of his lukewarm water, sucking the plastic Calistoga bottle until it imploded and crumpled with a pop. He chucked it in the back, making a note to himself to clean the depleted bottle and the rest of the accumulated trash out of his car at the next rest stop. His GPS told him it was four miles ahead. His digital clock display flickered to one PM, and he regretted leaving his Stetson in the trunk of his rented Navigator; the sun was hitting him in the eyes at just the right angle for the window visor to stop just short of where he needed it to block the glare. Logan hated being short, if only for that purpose. It was shaping up to be a perfect Texan summer day, if your idea of perfect involved mosquitoes the size of helicopters and ninety percent humidity in the shade. The road ahead of him seemed to shimmer in the heat rising up from it, and the desiccated trees whizzing by him looked too identical, mesmerizing him by the gaps between each row whose parallel slants made them appear to dance and follow him.

He'd been on the road too damned long, and his ass was killing him. Jet lag and travel delirium didn't help.

The car's temperature gage showed him an alarming number and solved the question in the back of his mind why the air conditioning wasn't keeping him cool after four hours on the road. Logan hummed absently to Johnny Cash and tapped his fingers hectically against the leather steering wheel. 

A large white sign on the roadside caught his attention, elegantly carved and painted in green letters: LeBeau Family Farm and Dairy, Est. 1890. He shrugged, noticing a long, winding gravel road that lead through a thick copse of trees, obscuring the large plantation house on the property. He drove past an enormous pasture well populated with cows, guernseys, if his guess was correct. They lashed their tails and shook themselves to shoo away the flies; Logan knew they had to find them as annoying as he did, divebombing his eyes and mouth every time he got out of the car.

The property looked deserted. Logan didn't notice anyone working in the field and the yellow tractor sat deserted in the shade of a large red barn that was missing a few roof shingles. He made a thoughtful sound in his throat. The home and land looked well-cared for aside from that, he had to give the owners credit.

 

"REMY!"

"Now what?" a young baritone demanded, annoyed. Its owner leaned against the side of the stall as he paused in his malodorous chore, resting the pitchfork against the wall. He straightened and approached the barn door, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. "YEAH?"

"Pop wants you to fix the roof," Jean-Paul informed him smugly as he dug into a bowl of ice cream from the shade of the back porch. He sat in their father's favorite Adirondack chair, long, slim legs sprawled comfortably and feet shod in brand-new, coffee brown leather boots that never saw the inside of a stall.

"Pop wants _me_ t'fix it?" he asked incredulously. "Y'hands ain' broken, homme."

"Pop asked you," he shrugged, slurping a melting lump of rocky road from his spoon. He dug into the bowl with enthusiasm, adding "He wants you to check Betty Sue and see if she's gonna calf tonight."

"Remy'll get right on dat, when he grows three more hands," Remy complained. Jean-Paul grinned.

"Hurry up." Remy fought the urge to grab up a clump of manure in his gloved hand and fling it at his younger stepbrother, but he took the path of least resistance and retreated back into the barn, ignoring him.

"Hey, REMY!" Jean-Paul called out, waiting for him to head all the way back inside. Remy sighed in long-suffering fashion and made an about-face, eyeing his brother sourly.

"Now what?" he repeated for about the tenth time that day.

"Some old chick called you."

"Old chick?"

"Yeah... Sandy... Cassie, something-or-other. Said she'd try to call you back when you weren't busy. Mentioned she'd be heading out of town for three days."

"MERDE! Ya took her number, right?"

"Nope. Thought you had it," Jean-Paul said, throwing up his hands after setting his empty bowl down on the porch rail.

"Damn it," Remy hissed. "Ya take a call from Cassandra Nova an' ya don' bother gettin' her number?"

"What's the big deal?"

"It's a big deal, mec! Been waitin' on her t'call all week! De art exhibit's in two days! She was gonna tell me if it was too late or not t'submit my painting for de juried show."

"Ahhhh, don't worry about it. What's the big deal? There'll be other shows," he muttered. "Better go finish that roof, Rem." His brother turned his back on him without further discussion and nothing resembling an apology and sauntered back inside.

"FUCK!" Remy spat, running at the side of the barn and giving its façade a savage kick. "DAMN IT!" He banged his fist against the weather-beaten wood, regretting that his work glove was too thin to buffet the impact. His hand smarted as he returned to finish mucking the stall, but not before he cursed his own folly.

Just as Logan's bladder reminded him it would be a good idea to stretch his legs, the radiator gurgled ominously, and Logan heard a hissing sound that signaled his day was about to turn to crap. He checked the gage again and slapped the steering wheel, then pounded it with his fist.

"Piece of crap!" he growled. "Why?" he pleaded with the car. It had no answer for him but to continue to hiss as he pulled the Navigator off the road, rolling into a field of wheat-yellow grass and goldenrod. He turned off the ignition, and his breath caught at the sound of the water gushing out of the radiator onto the parched ground, which swallowed it greedily. Logan plowed his hand through his hair helplessly.

"Great," he ranted. "Just friggin' great." He railed at the sky, "Thanks, God. `Preciate it." He paced and watched the cars zip past him, unimpressed with Texan hospitality at this neck of the woods. A car horn blared in a long, sonorous bleat behind him, startling him as a gaggle of girls hooted at him from the rear windows and bed of an overpacked Ford F150 Supercab. "Nice. Thanks," he nodded, saluting them and smiling with disgust. His sigh was ragged as he contemplated his options before ducking back into his car. He retrieved his cell phone and tried to dial AAA.

 

From his vantage point on the roof, Remy saw the small, male figure in a blue plaid shirt and faded jeans lumbering back to the trunk of the green Navigator. The car looked like new money, even if the man himself carried himself like someone older, or at least that was the impression he took away from his first glance.

"What de hell?" Remy murmured around the nails hanging from his lips. He removed them and laid them over the slat of the shingle that awaited a more secure anchoring with his hammer. He nudged his baseball cap back from his face by the bill, briefly swiping at the sweat on his brow. His tank was sticking to him in patches, but he hated sunburns on his back, and the one hundred-five-degree glare was no joke. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and he was still in the middle of peak hours, irritated that his father couldn't just let him wait to fix the barn roof after dinner.

"He's gotta be havin' as shitty a day as I am, fancy car or not," Remy muttered. He sighed, hating to see someone in a situation he'd hate to find himself in.

He decided to play Good Samaritan and promptly doubled back, hoping down from the ladder once he reached the third rung from the bottom. He loped into the house, rummaging around in the pantry.

"What the fuck?" Pietro looked up from the sports pages of the paper, eyeing Remy with annoyance. "Take those boots off if they've got shit on them!"

"Ain' sticking around long enough ta make a mess," Remy huffed. Pietro shook his head.

"Pop's coming back in a minute with a buyer. Don't track up the floor. And finish the roof." He ducked his platinum blond head back into the paper, and Remy flipped the bird at his back as he left the kitchen with his big red toolbox.

"Prick," he muttered under his breath. His older stepbrother was even more useless than Jean-Paul and took up more space once he came home from college. He was working on a second master's degree that he didn't plan to use for anything, other than to delay repaying his student loans. In the meantime, once he returned to the family ranch, he didn't lift so much as a finger.

Remy half-trotted, half-ran down the road, ignoring the heat licking up at him through his thin boot soles and scorching his bare arms. His already dry mouth tasted the dust from the road the salty sweat collecting on his upper lip. 

The closer he came to the ailing Navigator, the better a view he got of the stocky man bending over the open trunk. He heard his muted grumblings and curses and saw his ass jutting up at an easily appreciated angle, shrink-wrapped in tight faded jeans. Remy licked his lips again, this time with more obvious purpose. _Damn..._ His glutes were tight as a drum, well-rounded and supple, almost begging to be groped. The object of his admiration shifted and jerked as he fumbled in the trunk.

"Where the fuck did I leave that box?" Remy heard him cuss. He suppressed a chuckle before announcing himself.

"'Ey," he called out, rattling his toolkit and giving a sharp whistle around his finger and thumb. "Mec," he greeted, "what's goin' on?" The man turned and eyed him warily, taking in Remy's shabby appearance with obvious distrust.

"Might be able ta handle it myself," he grunted.

"Don' wan' me t'take a look?" Remy scowled, gesturing to the field. "Long way out from anything way `round here, mec. C'mon, pop de hood." The man sighed, then threw up his hands.

"Be careful with her, she's a rental." Remy tsked.

"Damn. Got a raw deal, neh?" Remy whistled a jaunty tune under his breath as he crossed to the front of the car, which was steaming from the heat. He was glad he still wore his work gloves.

Logan leaned over the other side of the hood once Remy popped it and propped it with the rod. "The bitch overheated," Logan explained crabbily. "My own fault. Wasn't impressed with it when they rented it to me at the Hertz desk, but I was running late."

"Dis ain't de best car Lincoln's ever come out wit', in Remy's book, anyway. Like dem older cars dat let ya ride in comfort, like de old Continental his grampere drove. Just laid back wit' de windows open an' relaxed against dose comfy leather seats. Dey held onto dat new car smell, too. Built `em solid, in Remy's opinion."

"Ermmm... yeah." Logan sounded unconvinced. Remy flicked him a glance from eyes hooded by his cap.

"Mileage on dese ain' all dat great, either, mec."

"Logan. I go by Logan."

"'Allo." Remy prodded his way around the interior. "Radiator?"

"Yup."

"Broken seal."

"Shit."

"Ain' got what I need t'fix it here."

"I can call AAA."

"Good luck gettin' `em out here usin' dat," Remy told him, nodding to his tiny Nokia. "We here in a dead zone."

"Fuck," Logan hissed incredulously.

"C'mon."

"What?"

"C'mon. Come wit' Remy to de house. Use de land line. Dere's de road marker." He pointed to the tiny white spike across the road with the three numbers indicating their location. "Cool yer heels, mec."

"Logan," he reminded him, sighing. He strode beside him, taking longer strides to keep up with the kid's gait, since he topped him by about ten inches. 

Logan wondered if Remy worked for the owner of the property he spied before, and if the farm usually let their employees look that disreputable. Remy was filthy, and a strong breeze unfortunately brought him downwind of his accumulated funk and the unmistakable pong of manure. His tanned skin was slicked with sweat and his white tank was mottled with large triangles of moisture that made it cling to his chest and back.

But despite the presentation, the view wasn't bad. The young man's body was lanky but muscular, well sculpted, broad-shouldered and long-limbed. The thin tank clung to a rippling abdomen and bared the taut cords of his long neck. His jeans were as faded as Logan's but more battered, riddled with holes in the knees and nearly torn off at the hems, no doubt from getting caught in his boot heels. The fabric over his glutes was worn thin and nearly white from the distress of constant bending and leaning against stall walls, on its last gasp, and a few narrow rips revealed a brief, provocative glimpse of white skin underneath.

His long hair was pulled back into an unkempt ponytail that wasn't doing its job of keeping him cool; dark chestnut brown strands clung wetly to his nape before he reached back and fisted the entire fall and lifted it up, fanning some air over his smothered skin. Logan licked his lips, tempted by the ruddy, smooth skin graced by a few sandy freckles.

They trudged up the winding path to the house, which was larger than Logan previously guessed, two-stories and spanning back into a well-maintained yard with a tall picket fence. "Ya work here?" Logan inquired.

"Meh. More or less."

"What? It ain't a question that deserves that vague of an answer, bub."

"Remy lives here," he said curtly. He flicked his dark eyes over him, smirking at Logan's look of chagrin. "Whatsamatter, mec? Surprised?" Logan shook his head, then shrugged as he led him to the front door. He keyed his way in through a door with colored glass panes whose center block was etched with the family name. He shoved the door open and beckoned for him to go inside. "Gimme a minute. Gotta take dese off," he said, nodding down to his boots. Logan recoiled at their sorry state, then nodded in agreement.

"Thanks."

"Jus' let my brother know ya wanna use de phone in de kitchen. It's straight back." Remy leaned against the porch rail and struggled to tug off his boot. His tendons screamed in complaint from standing all day, but flexing his leg up felt good. He tugged on the boot, then briefly lost his balance. Logan turned back, watching him in amusement.

"Need help?"

"Just... sore," he grunted. Logan sighed and came back out. 

"Gimme yer gloves, kid. Lemme help ya a sec."

Remy scowled. "I can do it, mec."

"Take a load off." Logan nodded to the vacant chaise, realizing that his host looked knackered. Remy sighed, then nodded, sinking down onto the taut caning and stretching out those long legs in front of him. He stripped off the gloves and handed them to him gingerly. Logan donned them, giving the webbing a stiff slap to fully sheathe his fingers in them, and he bent down, reaching for Remy's left boot. "Give it here... got it..." He caught his foot and got a solid grip on the boot and jerked. Two grunts and it slid off, revealing a white sock with a hole in the heel. Logan tsked; the kid was a ragamuffin. He appreciated good, comfortable work clothes himself, no stranger to hard work, but Logan was surprised that he couldn't outfit himself in better quality work togs, especially living on what seemed to be a thriving ranch.

He paused in wonder, distracted by the low, almost sensual groan of relief that escaped Remy once the boot came off. He rubbed his thigh in long strokes that made Logan's hands itch, wondering how those supple muscles would feel beneath his own palms. "Damn, that feels good."

"Ya need new boots."

"When I get `round to it," he shrugged as Logan bent down again and helped him with the other, earning him another earthy, rumbling groan that... unsettled him. Logan fought a sudden, chafing snugness in his crotch and cleared his throat. "Don' feel like gettin' back up. Dat's de problem wit' sittin' down; gimme a hand up?" Logan shucked the sorry gloves and reached for his hand, impressed by the wiry strength, but the calloused palms made him almost tsk. _He needs new gloves, too. Damn._ He tugged, hauling him up in one smooth motion. The momentum carried him to his feet but made him bump up against Logan, slightly off-balance. Logan caught his arm reflexively to help him steady himself. Coffee brown eyes striated with fine lines peered up into Remy's face with interest, roving over the features shadowed by the dirty green baseball cap. He gentled his grip, sliding his hand down until his thumb stroked the tender, smooth crease of Remy's inner elbow. Logan's nostrils flared and Remy licked his lips. Those eyes tracked that gesture, riveted by the chiseled lips.

He felt a tendon in Remy's arm jump at his touch and saw him swallow. He cleared his throat. "'Preciate it."

"Any time." Remy gently shook off his grip and preceded Logan into the house, missing his flushed look behind him. Remy felt heat suffuse him and Logan's eyes on his back, his whole body aware of his intense regard. The house was appetizingly cool, central air pushed back down on the occupants by white ceiling fans in each room. Logan's eyes flicked over the framed photos hanging on the wall in the corridor. He paused a moment and smiled at one of a young boy grinning as he embraced a sheep around the neck, brandishing a blue ribbon in his small fist. He was gap-toothed and innocent, and his smile was infectious. He squinted as he stared; what was the deal with those eyes?

"Get off de phone," Remy ordered as they entered the kitchen. A tall, lean young man with platinum hair scowled over his shoulder at the demand.

"Piss off."

"Need de land line. He needs ta call for a tow. Radiator's shot."

"Just let it cool down in the shade," he argued. "Siddown. Squeeze a cheek," he spat, gesturing to the kitchen table and chairs without really glancing at Logan. Their guest huffed a laugh and sat while Remy moved about, finding glasses in the cupboard and opening the fridge.

"Wet yer whistle, homme," Remy offered, chagrined that the icebox was almost bare. The lemonade pitcher was half-full; Remy was thirsty enough to glug its entirety himself, but he poured two glasses, giving Logan the fuller one and pushing it beneath the lever for the ice maker. Two cubes plopped into the clear ivory liquid, and he handed Logan the sweating drink before he sat down across from him.

"Thanks, buddy." He drained half of it in one gulp before his bladder sorely reminded him of its earlier complaints. "Uh..."

"Down the hall, t'the left," Remy said, flicking his hand toward the rear door.

"Thanks again." Logan quickly set down the glass, hurrying out to relieve himself. Pietro's mouth dropped open as he held the receiver against his chest to muffle his words.

"Who... is _that_?"

"Neh. Said his name's Logan."

"What happened? His car broke down?" Pietro held up his hand before Remy could answer him. "Call you back, Wanda. We've got a houseguest. I know. Kisses!" He thunked the receiver back onto the cradle impatiently. "What's his deal?"

"Radiator."

"What kind of car, dumb ass!"

"Green Nav," Remy shrugged, uninterested. "Might be pretty, but it's a piece of shit."

"A Navigator?"

"A rental," Remy shrugged again. He took a slug of lemonade and removed his cap, fanning himself.

"He's traveling on business?"

"Ask him when he comes back." Pietro sighed, shaking his head.

"Clueless. Hopeless," he snapped. "Can you say `probably loaded?'" He straightened up as Logan returned to the kitchen, and he helped himself to a good, long look, silently approving of what he saw.

His clothes were simple enough, but better quality than most of their neighbors on their rural road. But what drew Pietro's attention was the platinum Rolex and heavy silver belt buckle, spanking new boots and "CK" labels winking up from the tag on his shirt and hip pocket.

_Bingo._

"Had a breakdown?" Pietro piped up. He hurried forward and pumped Logan's hand firmly, smiling like a car salesman. "I'm Remy's big brother, Pietro." He was impressed by his large, thick-palmed hand and strong grip. Pietro's calculating, silver-blue eyes roved over their guest with obvious interest. Shorter than he usually liked, but he had that rough look.

Logan appraised him just as thoroughly but with no artifice. "Yer Remy's older brother, ya said?"

"Pfffttt�by t'ree weeks," Remy scoffed sourly as he swished his lemonade glass in a slow circle before taking a sip. Logan turned toward his voice and immediately withdrew his hand from Pietro's cool grip. Remy had taken off his baseball cap, giving him an unhindered view of his face.

Gorgeous. Sexy. Breathtaking.

Despite the way his hat had mashed his hair, leaving him with a hatband impression around his head, Remy could have been a male model. His eyes were so deep and dark they were black, large, and fringed with long, thick lashes. He had high, sculpted cheekbones and a strong jawline, dusted with a hint of five o'clock shadow. Slightly arched auburn brows drew together as Logan stared at him.

"Got somet'in' on my face, homme?"

"Huh?"

"Jus' wond'rin'. Yer starin'," Remy murmured slyly as the left corner of his mouth curled up in a lazy smile that pulled at Logan's loins.

 _Damn it._ Logan's eyes flitted away, and Pietro took the opportunity to shove himself back into his line of vision.

Logan liked what he saw enough this time, too, but Pietro's was a showier brand of beauty. His platinum blond hair was a spiky, youthful, high-maintenance coif like something off of a reality show. Like Remy, he was tall and lean, but his posture was proud, and he seemed to preen himself, even shooting himself a quick glance in the microwave window to smooth his eyebrows.

"Where you from?"

"I'm new to Bee Creek," he mentioned casually. "Half the boxes in my apartment are still unpacked."

"You live in an apartment?" Pietro inquired, smile barely faltering with hidden disappointment.

"My realtor's hunting down a house for me. I need wide open spaces," Logan shrugged. Pietro brightened.

"Of course you do! Here, let me top you off," he plied, taking Logan's glass from him and refilling it with lemonade. Remy silently narrowed his eyes at Pietro's choice of words, allowing a hint of sensuality to creep into his voice when he said "top you." Logan cleared his throat and took another polite sip. "So what do you think of our little neck of the woods? Bet it's just a little mud puddle compared to where you came from," he fished.

"Moved back here from Georgia," he mentioned casually. Remy looked interested and opened his mouth to speak, but Pietro swooped in again.

"Oh, Jean-Paul and I LOVED Atlanta the last time we went! Everyone at the airport was so friendly, and there was so much to do! We had a hard time saying no to the butter pecan ice cream. I practically gained five pounds!"

"Errrmm, can't tell," Logan said helplessly. Pietro rolled his eyes.

"Flatterer. You look like you keep yourself pretty fit."

Logan was saved from having to reply by the bang of the front door. Masculine, quick footfalls signaled the return of Jean-Paul from his errand, looking casually windblown and pleased with himself.

"Check out this shirt I scored at Macy's," he breathed, plopping the shopping bag on the table in front of Remy, paying no attention to his personal space. He fished it out and held up the deep red, close-fitting, club-cut buttondown shirt and held it up to himself. "Well? What say?"

"Looks like yer tryin' too hard," Remy muttered sourly, less envious of the new clothing than he was of the time spent off the farm in an air conditioned mall. Jean-Paul shot him an evil look.

"Fuck off," he hissed. "And go take a shower, you reek."

"You are a little fragrant, little bro," Pietro pointed out. Remy sighed. 

"Ain' no point, when I'm headed back outside, neh?" Remy rose reluctantly and his muscles groaned in complaint. He didn't feel like vacating the cool of the kitchen to go back out in the blaring heat.

"What're ya doin' that ya hafta head back out? Take a load off, kid," Logan demanded.

"Gotta fix de barn roof," he shrugged, putting his hat back on. He took the last swallow of his drink and set the glass in the sink. "Let `im use de phone," he reminded Pietro casually. Remy noticed the same funny gleam appear in Jean-Paul's eyes as he noticed the older man, who clearly had money. Jean-Paul could smell a sugar daddy from fifty paces.

He just didn't feel like watching the spectacle. His stepbrothers wore on his patience even on good days, but he didn't feel like watching them compete for attention with an unsuspecting houseguest and the resulting drama and fallout. Remy gave Logan a brief salute before heading back outside to grab his boots from the porch.

Logan wanted to call him back. He stifled his annoyance at being deserted but rearranged his face into calm lines when Pietro handed him the phone. He dialed the number and tried to sidestep around the distraction of both young men plying him with questions.

"Did you just fly in?" Jean-Paul asked casually, enjoying the way their guest's jeans hugged the slopes of his body and beautifully curved glutes. Logan turned to flick him a glance over his shoulder, just in time to see that Jean-Paul was talking to his butt.

"Been on the road a few hours," he explained just as the rep on the line came on and asked how he could help him. "Yo... yeah, my name's Logan... wait a minute, let me get ya my ID number. Uh-huh. Yeah. Last name's Howlett." Pietro paused in the act of taking a popsicle out of the freezer. "Nah. It's not under that first name, ya won't find the account that way. Try James. I just renewed my membership a month ago. Yup, that's me." Jean-Paul and Pietro's mouths dropped open. "I need a tow. It's my rental. Radiator went kaput. I wanna trade it in til I have my car shipped out here. Yup." He turned to both men and said "Ya mind givin' me a minute of privacy, guys? Sorry. I just wanna give `em my card number. No hard feelings."

"Sure!" Jean-Paul piped up. He shoved Pietro in front of him unceremoniously and both of them headed outside. They didn't stop until they were a few yards short of the barn. Remy peered down at them, curious but not enough to ask why they were invading his turf so soon after he'd escaped them. "Shit. What're the odds?"

"I was ready to shit a brick. James friggin' Howlett. Damn."

"And the first person he sees here is Dumbfuck up there, so he can assume we're all that jacked up," Jean-Paul sneered.

"Are you kidding? He can roll around in the cow shit as much as he wants. All the better for Daddy Warbucks in there to turn his attention elsewhere."

"He's actually pretty hot," Jean-Paul mused. "Nice ass."

"Nice and hairy," Pietro added smugly. "Bet it feels good to have that at your back on a cold night."

"Wonder if Dad's ever met him?"

"Dad doesn't run in circles that fancy."

"That's what gets me. This guy doesn't seem that fancy at all. He's so... rugged."

"Rough," Pietro murmured. Both boys stifled a deep "Mmmmmm" of longing.

 

Logan watched all three men from the kitchen. He figured Blondie and Dimples were talking about him, but Remy was just plugging away, hammering replacement shingles on the roof. He finished his call and cradled the handset, then headed back outside to wait for the tow truck. He wanted to tell the three of them goodbye and thank them for their hospitality, knowing he risked more prying questions. Pietro and Jean-Paul's chatter ceased as soon as they heard the back screen door slam.

"Did you get a tow?"

"Yup. They're gonna be here in fifteen minutes. I'm gonna watch for `em out front."

"Oh, don't worry! Stay a spell!"

"Come and have a popsicle! Or better yet, we've got some Mike's Hard Lemonade, instead of that stuff Remy served you." Logan mentally sighed.

"We could turn on ESPN; Sports Center's on right about now."

"Do you like the History Channel?"

Logan had guessed correctly; leaving was going to be like trying to swim up to the surface of a bog of quicksand. He kept smiling politely and shaking his head.

"I'm good. I'm fine. I'll wait out front." He decided that Remy deserved his thank you now and began a short trot to the barn. "REMY?"

"QUOI? Whup - WHOA! SHIT!" The slender body atop the ladder teetered and jerked, startled by the sound of his name so unexpectedly. He turned too quickly, arm raised and holding the hammer aloft. That left him with only one hand against the roof and unable to catch himself-

"HOLY!" Logan's heart nearly stopped, then tried to pound its way out of his chest at the sight of Remy pitching off the ladder and flying through the air. He lunged and stretched up his burly arms, zeroing in on him, trying to get under him on time. 

He didn't know if he was grateful that he succeeded.

"AAIOOW!"

"ACCK! FUCK!" Then, "ow."

Both men lay back on the ground, tangled together and reeling. Logan saw stars and grimaced at the taste of blood on the tip of his tongue where he bit it. Remy's head felt as though someone rattled it back and forth like a Christmas package, teeth aching from clacking them together so sharply. He noticed he was lying atop something solid and supple beneath him that smelled like leather and expensive, woodsy aftershave. That something gingerly reached up and patted him, squeezing his shoulder.

"Damn it," Logan rumbled from behind him - beneath him - as Remy got his bearings. "Ya okay, kid?"

"Merde," he muttered, flushing beet red. He didn't know what hurt more, his ass or his pride. His brothers decided it should be the latter as they ran up.

"Off! Up! Get off of him!" They jerked and shoved Remy aside and bent to help Logan up, extending their hands. "Are you all right?"

"Fine an' dandy," Logan said, dusting himself off and rotating his wrist from where he'd bent it back with his landing. It stung. Remy glared up at him as he struggled to his feet before Logan could help him.

"I'm fine, too. Thanks f'r askin'." Remy headed back up the ladder, to Logan's disbelief.

"Take a break!" he nagged.

"Almost done," he answered without turning around this time.

"Rem? Thanks. Thanks fer invitin' me in. I appreciate it."

"Pleasure," he called back absently. Logan's ears were assailed again with the sound of banging nails, and he decided to give up.

For now.


	2. Love Getting Dirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remy indulges his passion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the moment, I'm just reposting what I have. It will be a while before I do a concrete update to this. I have been away from it for a handful of years. I have also been mired in different fandoms, but I still like this story. I just want this to be in the same place as the rest of my stories, so I am migrating it here.
> 
> Happy reading. Come talk to me.

_Probably just as well._ Remy squeezed a generous dollop of cadmium red from the spent, crumpled white tube, heedless of overusing his precious Grumbachers, but it was the one indulgence he allowed himself. The paint was thick and buttery, a pleasure to work with as he cleaved his palette knife through it, working it into the yellow ochre and burnt sienna until he could no longer see streaks of each individual hue through his blend. Satisfied, he poured a dribble of Liquin over it and massaged it in until it was his favorite consistency, a smooth, not quite transparent wash. He loved the tactile feel of the paint and the act of getting dirty in the process. It was liberating, like playing with tempera fingerpaints in kindergarten. Humming under his breath, he daubed his rag into it and used it to burnish his canvas with the background color, committing to the painting. Now he had no choice but to finish it, because it was no longer blank.

Remy wasn't ready. It was an easy lie to tell himself when he finally heard back from Cassandra. She clucked at him through the receiver; Remy heard the background noise of a crowded airport gate as she returned his fifth message.

"I wish there was something I could have done for you, my dear, but I told you before, you have to get your work submitted on time. There's so much paperwork to fill out, there's a matter of the fees, letting the exhibit hall know how much space you'll need to display your work..." Remy wanted to cut her off, since he'd spent the past week kicking his own ass. "I can't play favorites and give you special privileges, Remy, or I'll have to do that for everyone. I'm sorry. I was looking forward to you showing your work."

"Ain' nobody sorrier den me, mademoiselle."

"Oh, you know better than that, silly goose. Call me Cassandra; that's a good boy." His sigh was weary and ragged. "You're upset, aren't you? I didn't mean to give you reason to sulk." Remy's jaw set itself in an attempt not to blurt out how he was feeling or embarrass himself, but his cheeks felt hot and flushed and his mouth went dry.

"It's m'own fault," he assured her easily. "And I didn't get de messages on my end, either, neh?"

"I understand," she replied. "You'll pardon me for asking, Remy, but was that your brother who took my calls?"

"Oui."

"He seemed rather... abrupt. Perhaps I caught him at a bad time."

_Nah. It's just the icing on his cake if he gets to ruin my day. Any time's a "bad time" if the phone call ain't for him._ "He mighta been in a hurry, I'm t'inkin'."

"Sure," she said brightly. "Sometimes I wish you had an agent, Remy, someone who could handle your bookings for you. You can only get the information straight from the horse's mouth if you can actually get a hold of me! And I'm traveling all month long."

"I'll have to be quicker on de uptake next time," he promised.

"That being said - hold on - there's a special show I want you in on this time. Don't be caught napping." He heard the flip of paper, perhaps her Rolodex. Cassandra was old-fashioned and ignored her Blackberry in favor of things she could write in her own handwriting. "There's a competition. You NEED to enter this one, because it could make you and put you on the map."

"What is it?" he inquired, perking up.

"An art show geared toward the Old West. Paint a series of panels for the new western museum they're building in San Antonio. Those panels will be displayed in the front hall and all of the museum's ad campaigns will feature the winning art work. AND," she emphasized, "there's hefty cash prize. Five thousand dollars."

"Damn," he muttered under his breath. "Excuse me, I mean... wow. Dat sounds like somet'in' worth lookin' into."

"Enter this competition or I'll come find you," she told him flatly. Remy laughed nervously.

"All right, Remy'll be dere wit' bells on," he promised.

"Oh, and by the way, the competition also includes a social and ball. Lots of networking to be done on a night like that, Remy. We've sponsors from different art galleries and ad agencies around San Antonio, Houston and Plano. KTEX radio will be covering it, along with the Bee Creek Gazette." She sighed. "Wear something nice."

"Might be able to scrape somet'in' together."

"I mean it. I know this has been a rough year for you, but I don't want you to be the only one there in rags, darling. It's important to make a good first impression."

"I'll manage. I promise." It felt hollow to his ears. Remy would have to dig into his pitiful savings to get himself something nice. 

They rang off and Remy cheerfully returned to his painting, blocking in the areas where he wanted to cast light with titanium white and indicating drop shadows with mars black. If he kept the wash thin enough, he mused, the oils would be dried in a few hours. It felt good to be doing something creative, but more importantly, it was great to even have the time. Erik was out of town on business, and Jean-Paul and Pietro were out at a barbecue that they didn't invite Remy to. He was fine with that.

Sometimes he just needed the sound of his own thoughts. Remy turned and eyed the small framed photo of his parents on his desk, musing. Jean-Paul looked so proud in it and relatively young for a man in his forties. Remy's mother's smile was shy and slightly annoyed, as she'd been caught unawares and unwilling, but she took a nice picture. Her auburn hair was cut short for easy maintenance, but Remy missed those long tresses that she used to plait into one thick, lush braid that fell all the way down her back when he was a little boy. Her black eyes always held an element of laughter, something that Remy sorely missed.

He seldom laughed anymore. He supposed that should have bothered him. Then again, scratch that; he had laughed recently. The memory of their guest's face when they got up from the ground did tickle him, briefly, after he left. He looked flummoxed and frustrated, with a grimace easily translated to mean "What NOW?" Remy pitied him; he had to have had a truly crappy day. He left Jean-Paul and Pietro drooling after him once the tow truck finally came. They crammed a business card with the family farm's name on it into his palm and lingered over goodbye handshakes. Remy wasn't in the mood to watch, begging off to finish the roof, but he stared longingly after him as the truck rolled down the road.

He painted until his stomach growled for supper; Remy set his brush into his coil jar of turp and headed into the kitchen for the last can of Chef Boyardee ravioli in the cupboard. He swore when he found it missing; that had to be Jean-Paul. Remy sighed and opened the refrigerator with little enthusiasm. There were two dried out drumsticks packed in a plastic Ziploc baggie that had green spots growing on them, an expired carton of yogurt, the heels of a loaf of bread, a rancid half a tomato knotted in a plastic bag, and the pinkening remains of a bag of salad. Great. Pizzerias never delivered out on their rural route, so that left Remy with no choice but to go grocery shopping. He eyed his hair in the mirror and decided he was fine, then retrieved his wallet from his room. He counted the modest wad of bills inside and grabbed the keys to Betsy, his dilapidated Ford truck. 

The temperature gage outside read a mere one hundred one degrees; it was a perfect day to ride with the windows down.

*

 

Logan wiped his brow and sat back from the boring, lengthy chore of unpacking his boxes in an attempt to find his frying pan. He'd been hasty and hadn't marked all of them with a Sharpie they way the movers had recommended, and so there he sat, futilely unearthing everything else that he didn't need in the immediate future, like his toolbox, a bottle of WD-40, the contents of his kitchen "junk drawer," a large lantern flashlight, some shop towels and his car wash kit. He found his bathroom towels and rugs and kicked that box out of the way, not feeling like picking his way around the remaining crates currently blocking his path back to his bedroom. At this rate, he'd end up sleeping on the couch.

Logan couldn't look one more pizza or fast food carton in the eye. Endless miles of orchards and dry brush drove him into that vague psychosis that made him talk out loud to himself for the last leg of his trip, but it was compounded by the rest stops that all began to look the same after a while, to where he became indignant if one of them broke the pattern of how the shop was arranged and put the beef jerky beside the Chiclets instead of next to the Cheetohs where they rightfully belonged. He'd even visualized that Ronald McDonald had been sitting next to him and telling him "You deserve a break today!" He still hadn't gotten it, Logan mused to himself. He'd been in his apartment for five days and on his computer for a good portion of it or out and about running errands. His lower back and neck ached; the office supply store still hadn't shipped the new ergonomic chair he'd ordered, so he had to make do with his dinette set's chairs or propping his laptop on his thighs in bed, neither of which were very comfortable.

His stomach made ominous gurgles of hunger in concert with a headache he had brewing at the base of his skull from straining his neck. That tore it.

"Ta heck with this," he muttered. "Time fer some grub." He shoved his feet into his boots and grabbed up his wallet and keys from the kitchen counter, annoyed at himself for the clutter there, too. Logan hated unnecessary junk, knick-knacks, or poorly used space in his home. He envied the LeBeau family their farm and the distance from their neighbors. The kitchen looked like bachelors lived in it, since it was devoid of any personal items except a few clever magnets on the refrigerator and everyone's favorite mugs hanging from the hooks over the stove. Aside from the framed photos he noticed in the hall, Logan hadn't noticed any other artwork.

Logan didn't know why he had such a strong impression that Remy was the only person of that clan who truly belonged in that farmhouse. His flashy brothers seemed out of place there, interlopers of a sort, and unable to appreciate the home's humble but well ordered essence. Logan was also puzzled by the feelings of what he could only call protectiveness toward the young man, a strange sense of not wanting to leave him behind. He scoffed at it; he certainly looked like he could take good care of himself. There was just something about those eyes...

He shook himself and dismissed it. Enough. It was dinnertime. When he stepped outside and locked up, the heat blasted him and automatically made the bridge of his nose sweat, something only a true Texas, California or Arizona summer could boast. He felt the heat radiating through his lightweight guayabera shirt and debated, then headed back inside. He shucked it and instead put on a grey ribbed cotton wifebeater tank, preferring its lighter, breathable weave. It was only a slight improvement, but it would do. Logan whistled cheerfully as he keyed his way into his own car, glad to be rid of the rental. The Jeep was always a better fit; he enjoyed its rugged lines and tendency to let him sit high and easily see the road. He dug his Stetson out of the trunk and clapped it onto his head and popped a favorite CD into the console, and moments later he was heading downtown and tapping his fingers on the wheel to Johnny Cash.

*

 

Remy pulled into the strip mall lot and peered around in disgust; he'd made the mistake of showing up shortly after rush hour, and there was hardly any parking. All he needed were a few things...

He spied an elderly woman doing her level best to back out of her spot but noticed she was gun-shy about it, constantly checking her rearview and making short brakes every time she budged a few inches. Remy circled around the lot up the next lane and waited patiently. He'd have a spot four rows from the front if he timed it just right.

Logan cursed under his breath at the crowded lot and restrained himself from honking at a kissing couple who were taking their sweet time crossing the street in front of him when he was trying to move up the next lane. Sheesh�.

"C'mon, already," he muttered, "shake a leg. Get yer tongue outta her throat, fer cryin' out loud." They finally noticed that he was waiting, and Logan waved cavalierly at them as they smiled sheepishly and scampered off. "Oh, no, take yer time, don't mind me," he drawled as he made his way up the lane, finally, and came across a woman backing her old Cadillac out of a perfect space, taking her sweet time. He could be patient. Logan had a lot of things he needed to buy and didn't feel like hauling it all the way back to BFE.

Logan waved to the kindly looking woman as she finally eased out, backing up slightly to give her room to go. He carefully let his foot off the brake and �slammed his boot against it again when the upstart in the beat-up Ford darted into his space! Logan leaned on his horn, cursing up a storm.

"Are ya BLIND?" he railed, leaning out his window and throwing the driver a choice gesture, something he'd become fluent in living back east. He saw the driver peering into his rearview mirror at him while the drivers behind Logan began to honk. Fuming, he made his way to the back of the lot, just where he didn't want to be. He settled for parking under the last tree skinny tree he could find, hoping the scrap of shade it threw over his Jeep would make a scant different in coming back to a hot car.

He half-jogged toward the doors, hoping to get a glimpse of the guy in the truck as he went inside. He thought he spied the back of a familiar head in a red baseball cap walking away, but he didn't get a good glimpse of his profile. Damn it. Logan scowled as he entered the almost glacial, blessed air conditioning and jerked a cart loose from the rack, making a beeline for the deli.

Remy hit the canned food aisle first, thinking to stock up on the pasta and Ragu. He contemplated the different places he could stash it in the kitchen, knowing it was a lost cause; Jean-Paul had a ridiculously fast metabolism and Hoovered up anything that wasn't nailed down, still eating like a "starving student." He selected a meager amount of staple foods, throwing in a large bag of rice and a sack of pinto beans. Remy could cook up enough of it for two or three meals, and it was cheap.

Logan eschewed anything made with mayonnaise right off the bat, deciding he need things that would keep in his refrigerator for at least a couple of days if he wasn't going to eat all of it. That left out the potato salad; he opted instead for the antipasto and some roasted chicken. The beef lo mein was more than decent when the smiling female clerk gave him a sample, so a pound of that went into his cart. Next came the wine aisle, where he scooped up a case of Corona, having developed a taste for it since he began working out west. He reminded himself to grab a few limes from the produce aisle when he grabbed his bagged salad.

Remy decided he couldn't resist the Oreos, going for the two-for-five deal. A sweet tooth was his worst vice, he'd readily admit it.

Logan felt like some Wheat Thins. They went well with the cans of albacore tuna he decided to stock up on while they were still on special.

He spied the last box of Chex mix on the shelf and smiled. Yeah, that's what he was in the mood for.

Remy blamed his hunger for finding all the impulse items in the store so tempting. Like Chex mix. He could never get enough of that darned stuff. It'd be nice to have something salty, he mused.

Two hands made a grab in tandem for the cheery red box. It rattled slightly as they paused, realizing they were at an impasse.

"Geez."

"Uh... did you...?"

"If ya really wanted it." They stared at each other helplessly before it dawned on either of them who the other was. Logan flicked his Stetson back slightly, giving him a better view of his fellow shopper. A shopper who wore a suspicious looking red baseball cap. Logan removed his hand from the box, not knowing whether to be pleased or annoyed.

Remy made the decision easier for him, automatically chucking the box into Logan's cart.

"Made it back t' town in one piece."

"Imagine that." 

"Oreos, huh?"

"Oui. Dat's what happens when ya shop when yer hungry."

"You hungry?" Logan leaned over the handle of his cart, taking in Remy's appearance with an observant eye and far too much interest for his own comfort. It was hard not to stare at him and wonder what he'd been up to all day. 

He was dirty again, but this time little blobs and spatters of what looked like paint speckled his worn denims and black tank. Logan noticed that his bare hands looked older than Remy himself did, with fissures and cracks around his knuckles and calloused fingertips, hangnails that looked like they'd been ripped loose, leaving ragged divots alongside his cuticles. They were tanned, long and slender, but they were working hands, possibly artists' hands. So the kid did more than just swing a hammer... interesting.

"Gonna shove somet'in' in my mouth as soon as I get back to de house," Remy shrugged.

"Ya gonna get anything frozen?"

"Mebbe not." Ice cream was a waste of money; with Jean-Paul in the house, he'd never get so much as a drop.

"Did ya have yer heart set on Chef Boyardee fer dinner, or can I talk ya into somethin' a little more highbrow?"

"Tuna an' Wheat Thins?"

"I was thinkin' a steakhouse I saw down the road."

"Don' bot'er. Dey don' make dere own sauce. Tastes like Kraft." Logan wrinkled his nose.

"Not worth it, eh?"

"Non. Anyway, Remy's gotta head back," he told him while wearing his Sunday best nonchalant face. But Logan was hard to resist. He smelled good again, no cologne this time, just whatever deodorant he'd put on earlier, and a subtle, masculine little smell, almost like broken-in leather. Logan sighed.

"I can't tear ya away from whatever it is?"

"Ain' work. It's pleasure dis time," Remy informed him with a hint of a smile that infused his dark eyes with mischief. Logan was so tempted to yank off that cap to get a better look at that rich, long hair. "Enjoy de tuna."

"Yeah... uh, see ya the next time I need a tow," Logan called after him, wanting to kick himself. That went smoothly...

Why was the kid so aloof? Had he left him with a bad impression? He watched that long, lean body disappear into the crowd of shoppers in disappointment. Why would he turn down a free meal, unless he just didn't like the company? Had he given him any reason not to like him? Logan pondered it the rest of the way through the store.

Maybe the guy didn't have time for personal stuff. If Logan had to be honest, he knew how that felt. He just didn't look forward to going back to his unpacked, stuffy apartment to stare at his four walls once he actually found them.


End file.
